The way good subjects were coming to him lifted a little weight from Dick’s mind, for he had not felt altogether sure about his letters. He had written two sets of very successful letters over his signature, and so established a standard that he must maintain. If these articles from the Southwest fell flat, the newspaper world would say: “Oh, it was only a spurt. Sumner did some good things once, but he has written himself out.” The subjects were too good, however; he had no fear now of making a failure. As he intended to make something of a stay in Hot Springs, to become familiar with the place and its people, Dick soon began to look about for a more retired place than the hotel. He found it in a large brick and iron building called the Douglas and Johnson block, fronting upon the main street. There were stores underneath, and up one flight of broad iron stairs were large and comfortable rooms to let. Two of the rooms were vacant, and Dick took one and the cotton planter the other. Several good restaurants in the neighborhood were open at all hours. On the second day after he was settled in his new quarters Dick took a walk up the main street, past the stores and saloons and gambling houses, to inspect a new quarter of the city. Immediately behind him as he walked was a large, handsomely dressed man, so close that he might easily have touched Dick’s back. The man was taking slightly longer steps than Dick, and so was gaining upon him; and when they were directly opposite the Arlington Hotel he stepped a little to one side, intending to pass Dick. Dick would have sprung forward in haste if he had been able to see even five seconds into the future. But not having that faculty, and paying no attention to the man who was almost by his side, he went quietly on. Crash! There came the crack of a rifle, the whiz of a bullet within six inches of Dick’s head, the crash of broken glass, and the man by his side fell heavily against Dick and dropped to the pavement. Instantly there was a rush of men from the neighboring stores, and the prostrate man was picked up and carried into a drug store, Dick helping. “It’s no use,” said the druggist after making a hasty examination. “The bullet has gone through his brain, and he’s dead as a door-nail. What he needs is a coroner, gentlemen; a doctor’s no use now.”